Mark Twain himself was invited to pilot the harbor boat, and so returned for the last time to his old place at the wheel.  They all collected in the pilot-house behind him, feeling that it was a memorable occasion.  They were going along well enough when he saw a little ripple running out from the shore across the bow.  In the old days he could have told whether it indicated a bar there or was only caused by the wind, but he could not be sure any more.  Turning to the pilot languidly, he said:  “I feel a little tired.  I guess you had better take the wheel.”

Luncheon was served aboard, and Mayor Wells made the christening speech; then the Countess Rochambeau took a bottle of champagne from the hand of Governor Francis and smashed it on the deck, saying, “I christen thee, good boat, Mark Twain.”  So it was, the Mississippi joined in according him honors.  In his speech of reply he paid tribute to those illustrious visitors from France and recounted something of the story of French exploration along that great river.

“The name of La Salle will last as long as the river itself,” he said; “will last until commerce is dead.  We have allowed the commerce of the river to die, but it was to accommodate the railroads, and we must be grateful.”

Carriages were waiting for them when the boat landed in the afternoon, and the party got in and were driven to a house which had been identified as Eugene Field’s birthplace.  A bronze tablet recording this fact had been installed, and this was to be the unveiling.  The place was not in an inviting quarter of the town.  It stood in what is known as Walsh’s Row—­was fashionable enough once, perhaps, but long since fallen into disrepute.  Ragged children played in the doorways, and thirsty lodgers were making trips with tin pails to convenient bar-rooms.  A curious nondescript audience assembled around the little group of dedicators, wondering what it was all about.  The tablet was concealed by the American flag, which could be easily pulled away by an attached cord.  Governor Francis spoke a few words, to the effect that they had gathered here to unveil a tablet to an American poet, and that it was fitting that Mark Twain should do this.  They removed their hats, and Clemens, his white hair blowing in the wind, said: 

“My friends; we are here with reverence and respect to commemorate and enshrine in memory the house where was born a man who, by his life, made bright the lives of all who knew him, and by his literary efforts cheered the thoughts of thousands who never knew him.  I take pleasure in unveiling the tablet of Eugene Field.”

The flag fell and the bronze inscription was revealed.  By this time the crowd, generally, had recognized who it was that was speaking.  A working-man proposed three cheers for Mark Twain, and they were heartily given.  Then the little party drove away, while the neighborhood collected to regard the old house with a new interest.